


On Wings of Storm

by StarSpray



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, F/M, Third Kinslaying, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: When the dragons come, so does Vingilot--and Earendil is not alone on board.





	On Wings of Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang in collaboration with avoyagetoarcturus; you can see her beautiful art in the story below, and find more of her work on her [tumblr](https://avoyagetoarcturus.tumblr.com/)!

Elwing had few clear memories of her life before coming to the Havens of Sirion. She could remember faces, and the sound of her father’s laughter, and Lúthien’s singing, and Beren tossing her into the air, high enough that she hung for just a moment, feeling like she could fly away, before falling back into his arms.

And she remembered the smell of blood mingling with the smoke of burning tapestries, and the persistent combination of fear and bone-deep cold and damp that followed them down the River Sirion as they fled from Doriath.

In Sirion her people called her Queen, but she had neither crown nor throne, and the Sindar made up only a portion of the Havens’ population—and the Doriathrim only a portion of that. Most of the people were Men, remnants of the three Houses of the Edain, and there were plenty of Noldor also, from Hithlum and Nargothrond and other fallen kingdoms. It was a poor place to be anyone’s queen, but Elwing would not understand this for some years, and her people insisted on the title anyway.

She had no lack of caretakers, and from their arrival in Sirion they were determined that Elwing would not meet the same fate as her parents and brothers, caught helpless and unaware. Dior had been young and untried, caught off guard. Elwing was younger still, but at least she would not be unprepared.

The first time Elwing held a sword, she was six years old, and it was made of wood and slightly too heavy. She stood in a field just outside the Havens of Sirion, surrounded by other children her age and a little older, all of them children of the Edain. Their teacher was a woman named Bregil, one of the Haladin. She was the smallest woman Elwing had ever seen, all wiry muscle with her dark hair cropped short about her ears, and she had refused to give Elwing private lessons—students learned from each other as well as from their teacher, she said, and she only had so much time in a day. Elwing didn’t mind; she had seen the children gathered together doing drills, and it looked almost like fun.

Her first lesson was not as exciting as it had looked from the outside, and Elwing returned home bruised and dirty and tired. Oropher had accompanied her there, and watched the lesson in silence. “You did very well,” he said unexpectedly, as they passed through the gate. Elwing looked up to see him smiling at her. “Will you return next week?”

A few minutes before, Elwing had been thinking of refusing, or begging for another, easier teacher. Now she nodded, setting her jaw firmly. “Yes,” she said. “And the week after that.”

“Good.” Oropher squeezed her hand before releasing her so she could go clean away the dust and sweat.

She had other teachers, too: Galadriel passed on what Melian had taught her; Oropher and Celeborn taught Elwing the ways of the forest, how to hunt and how to hide; Lindir taught her music; Círdan came from the Isle of Balar to teach her the ways of the sea, and the history of the Eldar in Middle-earth, for he had lived through nearly all of it.

A wise-woman of the People of Bëor, Canneth, taught Elwing the stories and songs and bits of wisdom of that people, and also to the tales of the Haladin and the people of Hador—though Elwing was not descended from either, it was difficult to find anyone in Sirion who could not claim heritage from at least two of the Three Houses, and more besides. The Havens were a great mingling of people, just as the river delta was a mingling of water and land, and it was growing all the time, as refugees trickled in from elsewhere in Beleriand as the Shadow grew—there was only Sirion now, and Balar, and Gondolin hidden away somewhere in the mountains. All other strongholds were destroyed and deserted, but for the secret ways of the Green Elves in Ossiriand.

Then a host out of the north came, arriving in Sirion on a blazing hot summer day, led by Tuor son of Huor and Idril Celebrindal. Gondolin had fallen. They had been betrayed, and the city had been set upon the year before at Midsummer (while Elwing had laughed and let Gil-galad pick her up to twirl her around among the other dancers, Gondolin had been burning). A remnant of the Gondolindrim had escaped through a secret path built by Tuor and Idril in the preceding years, though how they knew it would be needed Elwing could not tell. As for Turgon—he had fallen with his city, alongside nearly all of his lords.

The news—though not fully a surprise—was shocking, and murmurs swept through Sirion. Even Gondolin was gone, now. What hope did they have here at the Havens, open and exposed and with only wood and water to craft their defenses rather than hard stone?

Elwing listened to all of it, and wished she were grown so that she might know what to do.

But with the fearful news came a boy, with golden hair and summer-sea eyes and a sunny smile. He was Eärendil Halfelven, the son of Tuor and Idril, and for the first time since her father and her brothers had died in the snow in Doriath, there was someone else like Elwing.

As children they were often thrown together, in both schooling and in play, as the Gondolindrim were accepted into the Havens and tensions between the Sindar and the Noldor rose and fell. Friendship came easily between them from the beginning, and remained even when as they grew they spent more and more time apart—Elwing beginning to learn to rule in her own right, and Eärendil drawn ever to the sea, spending his days at the harbor or on Balar, learning all he could about ships and about sailing.

By the time they were grown, all of Sirion (and all of Balar) was in agreement that they should wed. Eärendil, laughing, said to Elwing it would not do to disappoint so many people. She laughed, too, and agreed. In fact they had planned to marry all along, ever since Eärendil had proposed with a pearl he’d dived for himself off the coast of Balar when they were ten years old. Neither of them could imagine marrying anyone else.

The only thing that worried Elwing was Eärendil’s determination to become a mariner, to sail the seas, to explore, to be always moving. She loved him, but she could not follow him, even if she wanted to. And she did not like the idea of marrying someone only to always be saying farewell.

Nor was she certain their marrying would matter, in the end. The concern was that they should produce heirs—for both their houses—but most likely they would all be killed when the shadows of Angband at last reached down Sirion. It was only a matter of time. Gondolin, Nargothrond, Doriath. Dorthonion, Dor-lómin, Hithlum. The Falas. All of them once mighty realms thought nigh impenetrable, all of them now empty ruins. The fears that had washed through Sirion after Gondolin’s fall remained with Elwing: what chance did a ramshackle camp half hidden in marshland have?

She did not share these thoughts with Eärendil. He had enough on his mind, especially after he discovered his father’s plans.

“He’s going to sail west,” he told her as they sat together on the dunes, just within sight of Sirion’s harbor. A flock of gulls was busy milling about the waves in front of them, pecking at the sand for shellfish, and occasionally fluttering over to see if Eärendil or Elwing was feeling generous with their picnic lunch. “And my mother is going with him—and Voronwë, probably.” He balled up his napkin in a shaking fist. “I don’t understand!” he burst out. “The Valar have barred all ways to Valinor—Men have never been called there, and the Noldor especially cannot return! Why would they even try?”

Elwing waited a few beats, the gulls scattered by the outburst slowly returned to the sand. It was very quiet, the silence broken only by the steady rhythm of the waves washing up on the shore, occasionally leaving behind a shell or piece of driftwood. “Your father was Ulmo’s messenger,” she said finally, carefully. “Perhaps that will grant them some kind of grace. If Ulmo has visited him again…?”

“He didn’t say so.” Eärendil turned away. “They’re going to leave. And I can’t go with them, and I can’t convince them to stay.”

“I’m sorry,” Elwing said softly.

He sighed, and dropped back onto the sand, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the bright sun. “At least they won’t leave before we’re married,” he said. And then: “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Will you tell me one of those stories Canneth taught you?”

 

 

They were married in the spring, and Sirion celebrated for three days straight, and the sun shone, and for a brief time it was easier to pretend that everything was going to be all right. But Tuor and Idril set sail that summer on the ship Ëarrámë. Elwing was not certain what they hoped to accomplish, and she didn’t think Idril was either. But Tuor had all the confidence of a Vala’s chosen messenger, and remained resolute.

That same summer construction began on Vingilot. Eärendil did not at first intend to sail into the West, but merely up and down the coast, perhaps harrying the Enemy’s forces on the coast, perhaps helping anyone who was stranded. And when the ship was completed that was what he did, sailing north and then sailing south to see what he could see there. But when he was home in Sirion Elwing caught him often gazing toward the horizon.

By the time Elrond and Elros were born, Eärendil was growing increasingly restless. The exhaustion of new parenthood settled him a little, but not for long. When he came to Elwing one afternoon after the boys were down for a nap, she could guess already what he was going to say. “I’ve been having dreams,” he began.

“You want to sail West,” Elwing said.

Eärendil grimaced. “I know it’s likely a stupid idea—I’m the one who said so when my parents left—but you hear the same stories out of the north that I do, and if the Valar don’t help…”

Elwing sighed. Eärendil opened his arms, and she stepped gratefully into his embrace. “It will be dangerous,” she said softly.

“I know. But—I feel as though I have to. As if—as if maybe it’s the whole reason I’m here. Do you know what my grandfather Huor’s last words were to my grandfather Turgon? _From you and from me a new star shall arise_. I don’t know exactly what it means—I’m not sure Huor himself knew—but I keep hearing it repeated in my dreams, and those dreams are calling me West.”

“Then West you must go,” Elwing said.

His first forays across the Sea were short-lived, and he returned after only a matter of months. Each time she said goodbye Elwing tried not to think that this would be the last time, and each time he returned she could not suppress the relief that made her knees weak and her heart pound. When he was gone she was able to keep herself busy raising the boys and running the Havens, but both things were easier when Eärendil was home.

Each departure was the same—a sort of ritual both of them clung to. Elwing always baked a great deal of lembas for Eärendil and his mariners—another thing Melian had taught to Galadriel, that Galadriel had passed to Elwing. Most of it was stowed away on Vingilot well before they set sail, but Elwing kept a packet to press into Eärendil’s hands there on the dock.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Elwing said, watching Aerandir scurry up the rigging with the nimbleness of a squirrel.

“I know.” Beside her Eärendil stood unsmiling, and Elwing knew he was, still, torn between conflicting desires and duties. He did not say that he wisher dewing did not have to stay. She was not born for sailing as he was—and one of them needed to be here in Sirion, to rule and to look after the boys. Elros was already saying he wished to sail away with his father, but four years old was far too young, and Elwing was selfishly glad it would be many years yet before either of her sons were old enough to think seriously of leaving. Elrond and Elros had already said farewell, and were waiting at the top of the cliff outside of the Havens—the highest point of land for many miles—to watch Vingilot sail away until it vanished from sight beyond the horizon. Elwing would join them once the ship cast off.

It was no use telling Eärendil to hurry back. Each voyage was longer than the last, and this one would likely last years. Elwing often feared he would never find Valinor, that Vingilot would founder as so many ships had before her, and they who waited in Sirion would never know.

“I’ll come back,” Eärendil said, as he always did. “I promise.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Elwing replied, as she always did, and pressed the last package of lembas into his hands. “May the stars light your way.”

That night, after Elrond and Elros were asleep, Elwing took the Nauglamír from the chest at the foot of her bed, where she kept it when she was not wearing it—which was nearly all the time, except on high days and special occasions. The Silmaril blazed at its center, igniting all the other gems set around it. It was beautiful, the Silmaril—the Light that lived within it. Elwing wondered sometimes what it must have been like to see that Light in its proper place, in Valinor when the Two Trees lived. She wondered also what Fëanor’s sons were doing. Nothing had been heard of or from them since the final sacking of Menegroth, and as the years went by that worried her more and more. They had to know the Silmaril was in Sirion—it had never been a secret, and more and more Elwing was coaxed to bring it out and wear it openly, as the Havens prospered, seemingly reaping the blessings of its Light.

“Nana?” Elrond appeared in the doorway, rubbing one eye with his small fist.

Elwing set the Nauglamír aside. “You should be in bed, my love,” she said, even as she opened her arms.

“Can’t sleep.” Elrond climbed onto her lap, resting his head on her breast, and sighed. “I miss Ada.”

“I miss him too.” Elwing pressed a kiss onto Elrond’s dark hair, and began to sing, weaving sleep into the words so that he did not stir when she carried him back to bed, where Elros slumbered deeply and peacefully, his arms flung out at his sides and his hair already in tangles on the pillow.

If only they could always be thus—safe and happy and protected from the dark things that lurked out in the world.

 

 

Years passed, this time, and Eärendil did not return. Life went on as it had since Elwing could remember, until one afternoon a rider bearing the Star of the House of Fëanor on his breast came to Sirion. He was tall and dark, with the grey eyes of the Noldor and a fire in them that marked him as an Exile. Elwing sat in her hall on her driftwood throne and watched him bow, and wondered how many of her kindred he had slain in Menegroth, or Alqualondë across the Sea.

“Lady Elwing, I bring greetings from Maedhros son of Fëanor, and this.” He held out a thick envelope, sealed with twine; there no seal. Wax was hard to come by these days. “My lord has bid me await your response.”

Elwing gestured, and one of her ladies brought her the envelope. She thanked the messenger for his courtesy, and ordered that he be made comfortable, as it would be a few days before she had a reply to send back with him. She did not have to open the envelope to know what response Maedhros wanted. No one in the hall had any doubts. The question was how to say no—or at least, not yet—without bringing the Fëanorians to Sirion. Probably there was no way to avoid it. They had not dared to assail Lúthien, but Dior had not frightened them, and Elwing was only Dior’s daughter.

Alone in her chamber, while Elrond and Elros lay ed quietly in their nursery, Elwing opened the letter.

It contained words of friendship, but they rang hollow next to the blood spilled in Doriath, and the demand for the Silmaril was more threatening than perhaps had been intended.

“Their Oath drives them,” Galadriel said when Elwing summoned her council.

“Then there are two other Silmarils they may try for,” someone said. Such an attempt would be suicide—even Beren and Lúthien likely could not get near Angband, now.

The Nauglamír rested on the table before Elwing, bathing them all in brilliance. Elwing gazed at it and thought about the story of her grandparents. Even if they did hand it over, she doubted very much whether Maedhros or his brothers could touch it. That alone made her almost eager to surrender it. Let them feel the fruits of their treachery. On the other hand, all in Sirion viewed the Jewel as an heirloom of her house. Her father had died for it. And her mother, and her brothers. And no one from Doriath had forgotten Celegorm and Curufin’s deeds.

“Send the messenger back empty handed,” said Darthon, a gnarled old man with one eye and nary in inch of skin that was not wrinkled or scarred.

“That, I will not do,” Elwing said. Dior had ignored them, and that had been a mistake.

Bregil leaned forward. The Haladin had little reason to think ill of the Fëanorians. Caranthir had been a good friend to them. “Why not just give it to them?” she asked now. The room erupted in protests before Elwing raised a hand to silence them. “Let them come to dwell with us here in Sirion,” Bregil continued. “Then they will have the silly thing, and we will still reap its benefits. The Havens will be all the stronger or their presence.”

It was a practical solution, but not one that anyone else in Sirion agreed with. Resentments ran far too deep. Elwing shook her head as the second wave of outrage died down. “I cannot ask my people to live side by side with the ones who murdered our families,” she said. Nor had Maedhros offered such a solution. Some things could not be forgiven. “I will write to Maedhros and tell him we will not give up the Silmaril while our lord is away. We will treat with Maedhros after Eärendil returns.”

She wrote the letter herself, taking a few days to draft it. She reciprocated Maedhros’ empty words of friendship, but refused to be cowed. She was no longer a frightened child, and she hoped he heard that in her words.

The messenger was disappointed but not surprised when he was handed only a letter to take back to his lord. For a moment it seemed to Elwing that the man looked very, very tired—but hate moment passed, and he bowed to her and departed without another word.

Some thought that was the end of it. Those who remembered Doriath knew better. Elwing stared at the western horizon and wished for the sight of familiar sails.

Another messenger was sent, and another after that. Maedhros and his brothers did not want another Doriath, they said, but the Oath would not let them rest. Elwing must surrender the Silmaril.

Every time she sent the same response: “I will not, while my lord is away.” She sat on her driftwood throne in her rough-hewn hall, crownless, Aranrúth hanging on the wall over her head and Felagund’s ring on a chain around her neck. “When he returns, let Maedhros and his brothers come to Sirion as they friends they profess to be. Then we will speak of the Silmaril.”

But the months passed, and Eärendil did not return. Perhaps Maedhros and Maglor and Amrod and Amras thought he would not. No more messengers came. Foreboding settled over Elwing like the fog that rose at times out of the sea to lay like a thick blanket over the marshes and the harbor. Elros began to have nightmares.

Elwing taught her sons how to hide, how to find shadowed places and wrap those shadows around themselves, whispering to them the words and telling them of the power that lived inside them, come down from Melian who had woven shadows and mists like the threads of her tapestries in the forests of Doriath, not so long ago. To pass unseen would be their best protection, if the worst happened. “You must hide outside the city,” she told them. They listened with wide eyes, dark in their pale faces. “By the dunes where we play.” Within sight of the harbor, but far enough away that she did not think any battle would reach them, nor would anyone notice two small figures among the grasses. “Help will come from Balar,” she added. “If I do not come find you, Círdan’s folk will.”

She would have sent the boys to Balar themselves, but they cried so terribly at the mere suggestion that she didn’t have the heart to do it.

 

 

The attack came suddenly, on a foggy evening. They were not caught wholly unaware, but the Fëanorians brought fire—and wooden, reed-thatched Sirion burned. Elwing and the boys had just been returning home from an afternoon on the beach, and Elwing sent them running back, kissing both their sandy faces before they disappeared back into the mist, Elrond already whispering the words she’d taught them for hiding and for quiet. Then she ran back to their house alone, at first thinking perhaps it was orcs—but orcs did not use heraldry, and they certainly did not use stars.

Her sword, when she finally found it, was a comforting weight in her hand. Oh, what a terrible moment for them to come! Few of Elwing’s lords were in Sirion, out either patrolling for orcs or on Balar with Círdan and Gil-galad. She stood in her hall, staring at the spot where Aranrúth usually hung (someone had taken it away to hide with other heirlooms), trying to think past the panic that clutched at her chest with icy fingers, making it hard to breathe.

Something hit the door. Elwing whirled, sword raised. She had the Nauglamír in her other hand; its light was harsher than usual, casting stark shadows around the room, their edges sharp as the blade in her hand.

The door burst open, and Elwing had no more time to think, only to react as the first invader fell on her. She caught a glimpse of red hair before she swung, bringing the Nauglamír up to blind her attacker; as he staggered back her blade scraped over mail with a horrid screeching noise, and as soon as she could break away, she fled.

She was no timid maid—she had killed her first orc at sixteen, and coil hold her own against many of the strongest warriors in Sirion. But she had had no time for her own armor, and this was no ordinary battle. Elwing did not want to die, but neither did she want to become herself a kinslayer.

Fury rose in her at being forced to choose between the two—death or murder. As she fled out the back door into the garden, she cried words of power to bring the fog up higher from the sea, so it surged around her like the tide, twisting and obscuring and bringing with it a damp chill that soaked her gown and sank into her bones. It parted for her as she burst through the gate and ran up the hill. She had no real plan except to get away, though it was too much to hope that the Silmaril would pull _all_ of the Fëanorians from the sacking of Sirion.

Shouts rose behind her, heavy footsteps pounding on the path. Elwing stumbled but did not stop until she had reached the cliff edge, a sudden drop down to the water far below that crashed wildly against the stone, as though Ossë were as angry as she was about what was happening in the Havens.

The fog began to fade around her, sinking at the word of another. Elwing swung around and called it back, but it was Maglor Fëanorion who had spoken, and although Elwing had the power of Melian the Maia in her blood, he was stronger, older, once a student of the Valar themselves. If it was to be a duel of voices, Elwing thought only Lúthien could have won. The fog drifted away, spilling down the cliff like clouds over a windswept mountain peak.

Maedhros was there with Maglor, tall and fell, his copper-colored hair spilling from beneath his helm, gleaming in the Silmaril’s light—although the same light illuminated the blood splattered and drying on both of them, marring the bright star on their chests. Elwing held the Nauglamír to her chest; she still had her sword, but it would do her no good—not against either one of them, and certainly not against both.

Maedhros sheathed his sword slowly, deliberately. “Elwing,” he said. “Lady. Please—give it to us.”

Elwing risked a glance toward the harbor, and saw with horror that the fighting _was_ spreading along the beach toward the dunes. Beyond that, Sirion burned, smoke billowing into the dark sky, lit from beneath with an evil red light. She could hear screaming. She did not dare turn fully to see if any help was coming from Balar. Even if it was, they would be too late.

Maedhros waited, hand outstretched. Maglor stood beside and just behind him, silent. “I knew it would end in fire,” Elwing said distantly, as dread climbed up her throat, despair coating her tongue like bitter bile. “The enemy could come, and Sirion would burn and burn—like Gondolin, like Menegroth.” They both flinched. “Only I did not know if it would be you or Bugler.” Elwing met Maedhros’ gaze. “It makes no difference in the end. It is his purpose you serve.”

Neither of them denied it. “Give us the Silmaril,” Maedhros said again, but his voice shook and his hand trembled. He knew, Elwing thought, he knew what would happen if he touched it.

She dropped her sword. Maglor took a step forward. “No,” she said, and added, though she did not know why, “It is not yet your time to burn.”

She jumped.

 

 

Afterward, she remembered little of that wild and desperate flight over the water. There was only the knowledge that she needed to keep going, though she had no hope of finding Eärendil, or the way into the West. But she did find Eärendil, returning home at last, though too late. He wept when she told him the news—they both did, for Sirion and for Elrond and Elros, who had almost certainly met a similar fate to Eluréd and Elurín long ago.

There was nothing else to do but turn around again, to try once more to reach Valinor. Eärendil ran his fingers over the Silmaril. “Maybe this will light the way for us,” he said, though there was no excitement in the words, or even really any hope, though his determination was no less than it had been before. “It was for Elrond and Elros that I had to try,” he said, gaze turning back to the west, the wide sea open before them. “Now…if I thought there was anything to return to, I would abandon this quest in a heartbeat. But—if we can’t find a way to beg the Valar for their help, what’s the point of any of it?”

So they went. Erellont, Falathar, and Aerandir were as grimly determined as Eärendil, and all of them were by now nearly fearless. It was a good thing, too, for the voyage was neither peaceful nor uneventful. The Valar had been determined that none should return out of the east, and there were many perils in the Enchanted Isles and in the dark Shadowy Seas. Elwing did not know if it was the Silmaril that kept them from harm, or merely the strength of Eärendil’s will and the skill of his mariners. Perhaps it was both. Eärendil stood most often at the bow of the ship with the Nauglamír, gazing at the horizon, silent and lost in thought.

Then, at long last, they made it. Tol Eressëa loomed suddenly out of the mist one morning, lush and green. They could smell flowers on the breeze. They did not land, but sailed slowly past the isle, all of them staring wide-eyed at it, until Aman proper came into view, and then they stared at that. It was the mountains that commanded the most attention, so tall the peaks could not be seen even though after the sun rose to burn away the mist it was a fine, clear day. Elwing had heard tales of the Misty Mountains far to the east of Middle-earth, the tallest mountains Círdan said he had ever seen, whose peaks were shrouded in constant cloud, but next to the Pelóri she thought even they must be mere foothills.

Closer than the mountains was Alqualondë, gleaming like a pearl in the sun. Ships and small boats could be seen out on the bay, and as they drew closer they could hear the mariners singing. Elwing wondered what they thought of this strange ship bearing such a bright light out of the shadowed east.

They did not go to Alqualondë. Eärendil did not wish to tarry. “It is to Valmar I must go, to the thrones of the Valar.” So they dropped anchor farther into the bay, in sight of the Calacirya. And then they argued. Eärendil insisted upon going alone, and forbade not only his mariners but Elwing from setting foot on Valinor and risking the wrath of the Valar—that, he said, he would take only on himself.

Elwing would have none of that. To be sundered now, after everything that had happened, was to be sundered forever, and she could not bear the thought of that.

Eärendil took the dinghy anyway, so she once again leaped into the sea. The Bay of Eldamar was warmer and more forgiving than the waters of Middle-earth, and the foaming waves brought her easily to the shore where Eärendil stood, shaking his head. “You’re as bad as Lúthien when Beren tried to leave her somewhere safe,” he said.

Elwing leaned down to wring out her skirts. “If she had listened, I would not be here. Nor would we have that.” She nodded to the Silmaril.

“I know. I’m only saying that I feel a great deal of sympathy for Beren.” He sighed. “Well—it’s too late now. But I must go the rest of the way alone. Only one can bring our message to the Valar, and that is my fate, not yours.”

“I know,” Elwing said.

He kissed here. “Await me here, then. Or go to Alqualondë. You have kin there.”

She intended to wait for him there by the shore. It was dangerous to wander anywhere alone in Middle-earth, and though she suspected that was not the case here, old habits were difficult to break. She watched ships out of Alqualondë come to meet Vingilot. The Telerin mariners spoke with Falathar, Erellont, and Aerandir, and brought them fresh food and water. For herself, she did some foraging, and found a clear sweet stream to drink from and to rinse some of the salt out of her hair.

In the end, though, it was too lonely. So she made her way down the gem-strewn beaches to Alqualondë. It was not how she would have liked to come there, hungry and sunburned, crusted with sand and salt with her hair all in a tangle.

None of the Teleri seemed to care, or if they did they were too kind to say so. As soon as she mentioned her kinship to Elwë, they took her to Olwë’s palace, an open, splendid building that seemed to be more window than wall. Every floor held intricate mosaics, and the walls all gleamed like they were made of pearl. It was so unlike anything Elwing had ever seen that she did not know what to think of it all. Even the wall hangings were alien: light, gauzy things with glittering embroidery rather than heavily woven tapestries.

Olwë was tall and fair, with silver hair so bright it was almost white, braided with pearls and glittering opals; his robes were pale green, with emeralds in the embroidery. His wife, Helyanwë stood equally tall beside him, in a silver gown to match her own hair that flowed loose and gleaming over her shoulders. Elwing felt especially grubby amid all this splendor, and felt her cheeks grow warm as she curtsied—at least she could do that gracefully. Before she even finished rising, Olwë had crossed the room to embrace her, heedless of the grime. He called her niece, and would not hear of anyone demanding an explanation until she had been shown proper care and hospitality—including a luxurious hot bath with sweet floral-smelling soaps, new clothes of the softest cotton and silk, dyed bright colors and decorated with intricate embroidery the likes of which Elwing had never seen, and a meal of unfamiliar but delicious foods, eaten with Olwë and his wife and their eldest son Ëarondo on a wide veranda lined with flowering vines twined about the balustrade that overlooked the harbor. Only when they were satisfied that Elwing had eaten her fill and was comfortable did they ask how she had come there, and why.

She told them. It was a long tale, with many others entwined, and they listened in astonishment and dismay—and in grief, after she told them of Elu Thingol’s demanding of the Silmaril as a bride price for Lúthien, thus drawing himself and Doriath into a wider Doom. “Ah, Elwë,” Olwë sighed, passing a hand over his face. “That was foolish. Did he know nothing of the Oath, or the Doom of the Noldor?”

“He knew,” Elwing said. “He knew what happened here, and would treat with none of the Noldor but Ëarwen’s children.”

Olwë looked unhappy at this, but unsurprised. “It is all the more grievous because there was once great friendship between Elwë and Finwë,” he said.

The tales of Beleriand were difficult to tell; perhaps it would have been easier had their griefs been put into song, but as it was Elwing had to use her own plain speech, and she was not at all sure it was adequate. It got easier, though, as she was called upon many times to tell of Nargothrond and Doriath and the Havens of Sirion, and of Gondolin too, and Fingolfin’s realm in Hithlum, Fingon’s death at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Even when she spoke herself hoarse she did not refuse, hoping that if the Valar wavered perhaps the Teleri would lend their support to Eärendil and his message.

When she was not telling tales or being shown around Alqualondë, or learning about this strange new world, Elwing found her gaze drawn ever westward, out of old habit, as she awaited Eärendil’s return. She did not know how far it was to the seats of the Valar, but surely it was a good sign that it was taking so long? At the very least it meant they had not merely rejected his plea out of hand.

“Of course they didn’t,” Ëarondo said. “The Valar neither foolish nor cruel, Elwing. You have come through all their enchantments—bearing a Silmaril no less! Perhaps this is what they have been waiting for.”

His mother agreed. “When Elentári hallowed the Silmarils,” she said, “Námo spoke and foretold that within them lay the fates of Arda—earth, sea, and air. I do not know what that may mean, but more than one doom has been at work. You and Eärendil were _meant_ to come here, bearing this Silmaril, I think.”

At long last, Eärendil returned, utterly worn but triumphant. The Valar had listened to him, and had granted his pleas: pardon for the Noldor, and mercy and succor for all the Elves and Men of Middle-earth beset by Morgoth. Valinor would go to war, to defeat Morgoth once and for all so that the world might have peace at last.

The Teleri greeted Eärendil warmly, but did not press him for news. He fell into bed almost immediately and slept for a full day and night without stirring. And it was not long after that before a messenger came from the Valar to summon him again to the Máhanaxar—and Elwing with him. There they heard Manwë’s decree regarding the Halfelven: which kindred they would be counted among was left to them to choose. Elwing chose the life of the Eldar (after everything, how could she not?), and Eärendil chose alike, so they would not be sundered.

While this went on, the Noldor and the Vanyar began preparations for the war. After they were dismissed from the Valar for the last time they met Finarfin, the unwilling king in Tirion who was now eager to set out for the east, and Ingwion, tall and golden and fierce. The forges of Tirion and of Aulë rang with hammers like bells with the crafting of arms and armor.

And in the meantime, a sign was to be given to the people of the Outer Lands—and to Morgoth, should he care to look. Erellont, Aerandir, and Falathar were sent back home in a new ship, to tell Círdan of all that had befallen them, and Vingilot was taken by the Valar to the rim of the world and filled with wavering light like a great lantern—and Eärendil was set once more to sail her, carrying again the Silmaril that Beren had cut from the Iron Crown.

Elwing did not go with him on this new voyage. He would return to her at times, and there were things for her to do yet in Valinor—and while the thought of sailing through the stars might thrill Eärendil, the thought of entering that vast, empty space frightened Elwing.

Back in Alqualondë, she found few mariners willing to return to the east to war. There were mutterings and murmurs of the stolen ships and their people who had been slain, that the Exiled Noldor were merely reaping what they had sown. But Elwing told them again of Doriath and of Sirion, and before that of the valor of Denethor long ago. They still refused to take up arms themselves, and she did not ask them to, but in the end they agreed to sail the ships that would bear the armies of Valinor across the Sea. Ëarondo would lead them.

In those days Elwing learned also more about her own gifts. Ulmo, it seemed, had only awakened something that had until that terrible night lain sleeping inside her. Now, with the help and instruction of a laughing Maia called Aiwendil, she found that she could change her own form at will, an echo of what the Ainur did so easily. She could take the shape of a great white seabird, and also that she could simply give herself wings, unfurling them from her back whenever she wanted without needing to undergo a full transformation. Aiwendil also taught her the languages of the birds that flocked to the shores of Aman; they were all, he told her with a grin, incorrigible gossips and always eager to share news.

When Aiwendil departed, Elwing made her way to the smithies of Aulë. There she met Curumo, one of Aulë’s folk who was startled at her request. “But you are not permitted to set foot again on the Outer Lands, Lady Elwing,” he said, almost scolding.

“I know,” Elwing replied. “But I would have armor all the same—and a sword.” Eärendil had taken his aboard Vingilot, and Elwing was certain that he would not be idle during the coming war—and she was weary of sitting and waiting in uncertainty.

In the end, Curumo agreed to make her the armor, the delight of a new challenge stronger than his initial misgivings. It was crafted of hard steel that was yet light enough that it would not weigh her down if she took flight, and with room at her shoulder blades for wings to unfurl unimpeded. Curumo edged it with gold inlayed with silver, and made her also a leather skirt and tunic to wear beneath it, dyed a deep blue. The helm was crested with a swan feather. Her sword he made thin and light and wickedly sharp. Like the blades of Gondolin, he told her, it would shine with cold light in battle that he caught in the steel from the brightest stars.

“But I do not see that you will need these armaments, Lady Elwing,” he said. “Won’t you stay here where it is safe?”

“I cannot,” she said, running her fingers over the silver and the gold. “They are my people still, even if I cannot return to them. At the very least I will go with Eärendil to watch, whatever happens.”

While Curumo made her armor, Elwing traveled to Lórien. That was, she had been told long ago, where Melian once had dwelt, before she crossed the Sea and met Thingol in the shadows of Nan Elmoth. Its great trees had inspired the pillars of Menegroth, though Elwing remembered too little to see many similarities or differences aside from the size. Some of the trees in Lórien were massive, bigger even than Hírilorn.

It was there that Elwing met Nienna. She had taken a form less terrible and splendid than she’d worn at the Máhanaxar, only a little taller than Elwing, grey-clad and veiled.

“I thought you would come here,” she said as Elwing bowed. “You seek Melian your grandmother.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, but you will not see her. She bound her power and her self up in the land and wind and water of Middle-earth, and is now too diminished to take form visible to the Children, even if she wished to.”

Elwing had thought that might be so. “Will she regain her power?” she asked, fearing the answer but needing to know. Melian was, as Nienna had said, her grandmother, and she had always wished she’d gotten a chance to know her.

Tears slipped unceasing down Nienna’s cheeks behind her veil. They fell to the ground, and where they landed flowers bloomed. “I think so,” she said gently. “In time.” Then she turned away, beckoning to Elwing, who followed her through paths shaded and sunlit by turns, all inned with flowers and fragrant herbs—poppies, lavender, roses, rosemary, and others Elwing could not name. At times in the distance Elwing could hear singing, but after a while all sound faded but for the wind in the boughs high overhead.

At last they came to a small dell, a bowl-shaped dip in the ground covered with grass and sweet clover, surrounded by tall silver-trunked trees. At the far end stood a grey stone with a similar dip, waist high and smooth as a river-stone. Nienna approached it, and with a single clear note called down a burst of rain. The ground drank it up eagerly, and the stone filled; as the rain ended Nienna leaned over the dip so that her tears mingled with the rainwater.

Finally, she straightened, and turned back to Elwing. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand.

“What is it?” Elwing asked as she stepped forward.

Nienna took her hand; her skin was smooth and cool. “It is something like a window,” she said, “and something like a mirror. Will you look?”

“What will it show me?”

“What do you wish to see?”

Elwing regarded the pool of water. It had settled, and its surface was utterly still, like glass. “My children,” she said. “I would know what has happened to my sons.”

“Then look.” Nienna released her hand, stepping back as Elwing leaned over the water. She saw first only the smooth grey stone beneath it, flecked with white. Then she saw her own shadowy reflection, and above her head the trees moving now soundlessly in the breeze. The image rippled, though nothing had disturbed the water, and when it settled again Elwing saw not the stone nor the reflection but a bare, windswept hill beneath a dusky sky. Two figures stood upon it, but they were not her sons. The taller had only one hand, and his copper-colored hair lay lank and tangled over his shoulders. His face was drawn as with pain, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His companion was darker, and held a harp in his hands. They spoke to one another, but were staring at the western sky, where Vingilot could be seen rising, the Silmaril brighter than any of the other evening stars that flecked the sky. Elwing opened her mouth to protest—this was not what she wanted to see—but before she could speak, Maedhros and Maglor were joined on the hilltop by two young boys. They had grown a great deal since Elwing had seen them last, but she knew them at once, her beautiful boys. They stood hand in hand beside Maglor, and spoke to him with familiarity, even with fondness, peering curiously at the new star in the sky.

Elwing straightened. “What is this?” she asked. “How can—”

“Maglor found your sons in the wreckage of Sirion, and took pity on them,” Nienna said.

“ _Pity?_ But he—”

“Is it so surprising?” Nienna spoke calmly, tranquil as the pool of water, as though this were not one of the worst things Elwing could have imagined happening to her sons. “He has done terrible things, but all Children are capable of such things—just as you are all capable in equal measure of great kindness and courage and love. Even now your own children are growing to understand this.”

“My children are being raised by _kinslayers_ ,” Elwing said.

Nienna stepped forward again to place her hand on Elwing’s shoulder. “Hatred and bitterness will not ease your pain,” she said gently. “Can you find now pity in your heart for them? They have suffered too, no less than you have.” Elwing looked away. “Think on it. At the least, know that your children are cared for and protected.”

Yes—at the very least, that was true. “Thank you,” Elwing said softly.

She left Lórien with a great deal to think about, and returned to Alqualondë, with her finished armor, to wait for Eärendil. He returned as the armies began boarding the many ships of the Teleri, Vingilot gliding smoothly down from sky to sea just as dawn flowed golden through the Calacirya, the eastern sky still dark. As soon as he docked, Elwing ran to greet him. He, like the ship, was covered in stardust, glittering in the gloaming.

“Elwing, it is amazing up there!” he exclaimed as they embraced. “Sailing through the _stars_ —and looking back down to Arda, Elwing, I could see so much! The Valar gave me this marvelous spyglass. I saw Círdan and Gil-galad on Balar when I first rose, when they first saw me—”

“Did you see Elrond and Elros?” Elwing asked.

His smile faded. “I did. They’re—they’re fine. Not hurt, but—”

“They are in the care of Maglor Fëanorion. I know.” Elwing told him of her journey to Lórien and her meeting with Nienna. She was not surprised to see that Eärendil was quicker to feel pity for Maglor and Maedhros than she was, even a little bit of forgiveness. “I saw the wreckage of Sirion,” he said, “but—”

“But you were not there.”

“No. But I was in Gondolin.”

Elwing blinked at him. “But I thought it was ors and balrogs that destroyed Gondolin.” They were walking together now along the beach with its rainbow sand, away from the noise and chaos of the harbor. Here it was quieter, the only sounds the water and a few birds in the distance.

Eärendil shook his head, looking pained. He stopped, and for a minute they stood watching the clear waves wash over the beach. “It fell to treachery,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to properly compare Maeglin to the Fëanorians, but I remember even when I was very young thinking how unhappy he seemed. And at the end, how desperate.”

“You pity him?”

“Yes. And I pity Maglor—and maybe Maedhros most of all.” He turned back to Elwing. “Or at least I must try to. It would be wrong to ask the Valar for compassion if we did not strive for it ourselves.” He sighed, looking weary once more, and sad. “Perhaps I’m wrong—I’m only a mariner, after all.”

Elwing squeezed his hand. “You are rather more than that, now,” she said. “You are the evening and morning star, a sign of hope for any who care to see.”

He laughed softly, and looked back towards the harbor. “Maybe. And I must set sail again, and I don’t think I will return until this war ends for good—and it will not be swift.”

“I know,” Elwing said. “And on this journey I will go with you.”

He laughed again, louder and longer, as he pulled her into his arms. “Of course you will, Lúthien’s daughter,” he said, and kissed her.

 

 

They were joined on Vingilot by a handful of Maiar. One or two of Veda’s folk were set to regularly accompany Eärendil in his voyaging, but now there were several more, prepared for war.

Elwing leaned over the side as they set sail just behind the last of the Telerin ships. There was a strong west wind to fill all their sails, and farther north on the Helcaraxë she could see the host of the Valar themselves, shining and terrible in their splendor as they marched forth against Morgoth for the final time. Dolphins leaped out of the water beside the ships, chattering and splashing excitedly. In the distance a great whale surfaced, sending a plume of water high into the air.

Smoothly, Vingilot picked up speed, and lifted smoothly into the air. They swooped over the array of ships, and the soldiers and sailors below cried greetings and blessings, before Eärendil turned the wheel and they sped away skyward.

Elwing had dreaded this, passing out of Arda into the vastness of the spaces between the stars. She expected it to be cold and dark and terribly, horribly silent. It _was_ cooler, and darker, but the enchantments laid on Vingilot protected them from the worst of it, and at first the silence was kept at bay by the delighted songs of the Maiar who accompanied them, as they praised the light of the stars and the great beauty of things too far away for Elwing or Eärendil to see—great nebulae, and towering pillars of luminous gas and dust. Elwing glanced at Eärendil and saw the look on his face that said he would, one day, see these splendors for himself, and more besides.

One of the Maiar, a handmaiden of Varda, approached Elwing as the singing wound down. “Can you hear it?” she asked.

“Hear it?”

“Within Arda, echoes of the Music that came before can be heard in the water, if you listen,” the Maia said. “Out here the Music lives in the stars. Listen!”

A hush fell over the ship. At first Elwing could hear nothing but the occasional creak of rope or wood. But then she did hear something—soft and delicate as glass chimes in a the breeze, light as a flute’s song, steady as drumbeats—yet nothing at all like any of those things, and more beautiful, more piercing. It woke something in her almost like memory, almost like longing.

“Oh,” she breathed. The Maia at her side beamed. “It’s—it’s beautiful.”

Eärendil grinned at her when she joined him at the helm. It was the same grin he’d worn for days when they were children, after he had finished his first sailboat and taken it on its maiden voyage around the bay. “Not as bad as you expected?” he said.

“No, not nearly as bad.”

“There are dangers, still,” he said. “Strange creatures that once I suppose were corrupted by Morgoth. Sometimes they are drawn to the Silmaril. But they live out there.” He gestured out toward the vast darkness. “And for now we are staying a close course over Arda; I do not think any will trouble us.”

“Are they servants of the Enemy?”

“No, I don’t think so. They don’t serve him directly, anyway—he has given all his thought to the earth, not what lies beyond. But here.” He handed Elwing a spyglass, made of gold and silver, with lenses of clear diamond. “You can see so clearly it is almost like you’re there.”

 

 

The war dragged on for many years. Angband swarmed like an anthill with orcs and balrogs and werewolves and countless other monstrous things. The Mountains of Terror that Beren had braved now spilled over with spiders, children of Ungoliant as hungry as their mother. The armies of Angband poured down Sirion as the host of Valinor, joined by the Elves and Men who remained defiant in Beleriand, strove northward. Slowly, foot by foot, mile by mile, they gained ground. At times Manwë would send Eönwë or another of his servants to Vingilot, to get the star’s view of things, and often plans would seem to change afterward.

Through it all Elwing sought for Elrond and Elros. Maglor kept them far from the fighting for many years, and she felt, in spite of herself, deep gratitude for this. And for the fact that they were indeed loved and cherished, and seemingly taught all that Maglor could teach them. But when they reached adulthood she watched them depart from Maglor to join Gil-galad and his people, in the very thick of the fighting.

At last, Angband was beaten back to Anfauglith. The balrogs were routed, the orcs destroyed. Men, too, died in great numbers—those who marched out of the east to serve Morgoth. But the Edain fought more fiercely than anyone, before long rallying beneath Elros’ banner, and Elwing imagined even at such a distance that she could hear their battle cries—for Galdor and Gundor, for Barahir, for Baragund, for Huor and Túrin and Húrin— _aur_ _ë entuluva!_

Then the dragons came—not great crawling things like Glaurung, but larger, sleeker, _winged._ They burst forth out of Thangorodrim in a flurry of wins and teeth and claws and fire, such a fierce and sudden onslaught that even the Valar were driven back.

“Now, Eärendil!” cried the Maiar, even as Eärendil spun the helm so that Vingilot turned sharply and dipped into a dive—down, down, swift as a falcon after prey. As they reentered the airs of Arda they were joined by a great number of birds, the largest, the swiftest, the fiercest, and all about them was a mighty clamor of raucous calls. At the fore, proudest of all, came Thorondor and his eagles.

Elwing took a deep breath as the dragons came to meet them, and the Maiar leaped from the ship to join the battle. Her own foot rested on the railing of the ship, and her wings unfurled at her back. She looked back at Eärendil as he readied his bow. Their eyes met, and he nodded.

She jumped.

The battle was fierce, all movement, reacting, attacking, dodging, with no room for thought or even for fear. Only faintly was Elwing aware of time passing. She was surrounded always by birds, and they fought together, slashing with sword and talon at whatever vulnerable parts they could find on the dragons. And always the horns of Eönwë could be heard echoing in the mountains, and always Vingilot was nearby, shining with white flames, growing brighter as day faded to evening.

As the sun sank down over the horizon, Ancalagon came—his name echoing beneath the horn calls as the other dragons cried it loudly, as did the armies on the ground, and they were right to cheer, for here was the mightiest of the dragon-host, big as a mountain himself, black as the deepest pits of Angband, malice in his gaze.

Elwing landed again in Vingilot, watching with Eärendil as massive wings beat the air to raise the dragon high into the sky, each down stroke creating a gale’s worth of wind, sending even Vingilot off course, wobbling unsteadily.

“That,” Eärendil said, “is a very big dragon.”

“Yes,” Elwing agreed.

Ancalagon turned his gaze to them, eyes red as coals. Eärendil lunged for the wheel with a cry, and they only narrowly avoided the great white hot jet of flame that issued from the dragon’s throat. It caught instead one of the smaller dragons that fell shrieking to the mountains below. Elwing clutched the rigging, squeezing her eyes shut as the ship rocked, only barley managing to remain on board.

“How do we kill it?” she called to Eärendil.

“I don’t know!”

Glaurung had been killed with a sword to his soft underbelly—but the winged dragons had undersides rusted with hard gems and precious metals, as though Morgoth had bread them and had them lay for long years in some great treasure vault. Ancalagon himself was armored with onyx and silver so tarnished it was nearly as dark as he was. Yet many of the dragons Elwing had fought had chinks in that armor—gaps, weak spots, some very small but just enough for one well-placed, fatal blow.

She dropped from Vingilot once more, swooping down and around to try to get a closer look. She hoped to pass unnoticed, and to this end she chanted the spells she had once taught Elrond and Elros, taking the shadows of the night and wrapping them around herself, dimming her armor and shrouding her wings, as Lúthien had once donned her enchanted cloak. This spell was not so effective, but it was enough to hide her for the moment from the dragon, intent as he was on Eärendil. Even so, it was nigh impossible to get a good look. There were other dragons, still, and below them the battle still raged. Many times Elwing was almost knocked from the sky by a lesser dragon, and she had to turn her attention away from Ancalagon.

But finally, she found it, a small bare spot difficult to see in the night, but enough, if Eärendil’s aim was true. She turned and sped back to Vingilot.

“Elwing!” he cried as she landed next to him, stumbling as he feet hit the deck hard. His quiver was nearly empty, and he had been throwing javelins, though with little effect. Ancalagon great black wings were peppered with holes that bled sluggishly; the deck was peppered with steaming puddles of dark blood, but still he moved as though he were not wounded at all. “I thought you had fallen!”

“I found a weak spot,” she said. “Use the Silmaril—shine it—there, you see? On his left breast, a gap in the armor!”

Eärendil grabbed the Silmaril and held it aloft as Ancalagon passed over them. The light caught and reflected off even the most tarnished silver, and flamed in the dark onyx, except at one spot that remained black and shadowy. “Yes,” he said. “I see it. Here.” He thrust the Silmaril into Elwing’s hands. “Take it, blind him Ont he next pass and I’ll take the shot.” He leaned in to kiss her swiftly before stepping back to nock one of his last arrows.

Elwing took a running leap into the air, wings straining to get her high and close enough to shine the Silmaril directly into Ancalagon face. He spotted her immediately, and it became a race to get high enough that Eärendil could take the shot without having to worry about crashing the ship. But she made it, and held the Silmaril out in front of her as Ancalagon with a roar came charging at her, fire kindling in the depths of his throat.

Behind Elwing, the Sun rose. The first rays of dawn caught the Silmaril and it flared, brighter than Elwing had ever seen it. Ancalagon let out a piercing, shrieking cry, twisting way—and then he was falling, blood pouring from that gap in his armor that Elwing had found. Eärendil had done it.

Ancalagon plummeted as the sun rose fully over the mountains, and struck the peaks of Thangorodrim. He was so large, and had fallen so far, that the mountains cracker beneath him. And then they collapsed, crumbling, imploding spectacularly. The noise was deafening, especially as a cry went up from the fields below. The trumpets of Manwë sounded lout and clear, and a great chorus rose from the gathered birds.

Elwing landed in Eärendil’s arms, the Silmaril clattering to the deck and rolling away as they wrapped their arms around each other. Day had come, and they had won. They had _won_.

Now the Valar descended upon Angband. Aulë put forth his power and laid bare all the pits and tunnels and secret places, and Tulkas laughing like thunder led the way inside as Morgoth tried to flee, and then to beg and sue for pardon that would never be granted. They watched, seeing all from where Vingilot hovered over the mountains, as Eönwë brought forth the two remaining Silmarils; as he did so they lit up with the light of the sun, as did the one in Eärendil’s hands, as though they were greeting one another. And Nienna and Estë and Irmo and their people brought forth a multitude of prisoners and slaves from the dark places, stumbling and blinking in the daylight.

“Thus an end is made of the power of Angband,” Eärendil murmured.

“And of the whole of Beleriand,” Elwing said. The fury and the power brought forth through the long struggle had rent the land asunder, and now the Sea was creeping in. Great fissures opened in the ground, spewing fire and molten stone that hissed and steamed when it met the water, filling the air with whirling mist.

At a word from Manwë, Eärendil turned Vingilot away again and they returned to the skies. Thus it was from afar that they watched the last act of Fëanor’s remaining sons in pursuit of their Oath, though afterward Elwing turned away and did not see what befell them at the last.

As the world began, slowly, to settle, and the fleet of Alqualondë began to depart for home, bearing the victorious Noldor and Vanyar beneath Ingwion’s white banners, Eärendil returned also to Valinor. “They will call all the Eldar west who will come,” he told Elwing as they docked once more in Alqualondë, where a crowd thronged on the quays to greet them and ask for news. “You will have all the news you like from them, and your feet will be firmly upon the ground when you hear it.” He lingered ashore only a little while before setting forth again—for his voyages now had a new purpose, to keep a watch on the ramparts of the sky and the Door of Night through which the Valar had at last thrust Morgoth, to trouble the world no more.

It was indeed a relief to have her feet back on solid ground, and to take long, luxurious baths, and to have fresh food to eat, and to wear something other than armor. Elwing. And there were quite a lot of tales and pieces of news that came to her in the following months. Most of it she received in her tower—a tall, gleaming structure that had been built for her and Eärendil by the Teleri and the remaining Noldor while they had been away at war. It was wonderful. From its pinnacle she could see Alqualondë, the Calacirya, and Tol Eressëa, and beyond that many miles out to sea, so she could watch the ships coming in from the east, carrying returning Exiles and released prisoners from Angband, and also many of the Sindar who had grown weary of the Outer Lands.

It was Finarfin who came to her with news of Elrond and Elros, bearing long letters from both of them, and a small package of gifts—mere trinkets, really, but all of them made or found by her sons, and so more precious to Elwing than all the treasures of all the Elven kingdoms.

Neither of her children were coming to the West. Elros had chosen the Fate of Men, and had been taken by the Edain as their king. The Valar were preparing a new land for them, and his letter was filled with the things Eönwë was teaching them, and with excitement for what they would build in this new land, now that there was finally peace.

Elrond had chosen the life of the Eldar. He would come to Valinor someday, perhaps, but as yet he was unwilling to abandon Middle-earth—like Elros, his letter overflowed with the excitement of a new Age and what awaited them. He intended to stay with Gil-galad, who was building a new realm I what remained of Ossiriand just west of the Ered Luin.

The news was not surprising. If things had gone differently Elwing would have been there with Elrond, also choosing to remain in Middle-earth. But that was not her fate, and in the end she was not unhappy in her tower by the sea. The Sindar who had come west settled primarily on Tol Eressëa, and no one troubled her anymore with queenship—perhaps they were content to take Olwë for their lord, or perhaps they were waiting for Thingol to return to them. It didn’t really matter—for the first time in her life, Elwing was utterly free from responsibility, and it was like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

On a bright morning she stood on the highest balcony of her tower. The sky was clear and blue, the wind fresh and clean off the mountains. The sea sparkled; in the distance a pod of whales surfaced, and dolphins frolicked in the bay. In Alqualondë the fishermen were singing, and bells rang in Avallónë on Eressëa. Elwing breathed deeply, closing her eyes, soaking it in—a perfect day to fly.

She jumped.


End file.
